Frayed Thread
by movedtopencildarts2
Summary: Drabble/Oneshot booklet. Each of these days are threads and strings, and weaving them together will leave us with a masterpiece. Characters, rating, and genre change. A lot. -On Hiatus-
1. Warmth

A/N: I'll usually be posting around two to three updates for this monthly. Can be seen over at hetalia_contest at livejournal.

**Characters: **Canada, a little of America and OC:Philippines

**Time Period: **Post-WW2

**Warnings: **A little shounen-ai and incest, I guess.

* * *

Alfred was drifting away, just like that. Just like that wind when you're standing on the beach during a hot summer day, it sweeps by for a second and disappears, then comes back a bit later just to tempt you to ask for more. You end up getting nothing whether you plead or not; or maybe it's just his luck that's gotten him into this.

It must have been that incident before, Matthew thinks sourly. It was probably that. It was a bad idea. I shouldn't have done that, I shouldn't have. And he keeps repeating this phrase over and over in his mind, examining it for flaws and imperfections. It ends up broken and shattered in many places; He's been ignored, his brother's always chosen above him, and during World War Two that same brother was always going here and there and across the Pacific—

Yes, the Pacific, the Philippines. Right now, across the long meeting table, Alfred's chatting with the shorter, tan boy. The blond affectionately gives the brunette a hug.

Alfred's hands are larger than Matthew's (as he last remembers them) and they always cover his back. He can remember the emotion in those hugs in their childhood years, and it's always been like that; Alfred teasing him for his bear, his accent, his hair, and all those things ("_You were always so childish, and so intrusive; You don't know when to stop meddling in other people's business—"_). Matthew ends up crying, ("_No, I'm not! I'm not, Mattie, I'm not! I'm a good person—"_) and Alfred wraps his arms around his little brother in a silent apology.

His hands were warm, always warm.

It is always so cold in Matthew's home now. Bitter cold, even with the fireplace, his father's blanket, or the last family picture standing on the dresser. It seemed even more colder when he had burned that photo into ashes.

Matthew reaches his own gloved hands to his cheeks, stroking the familiar area under his eye as Alfred (last) did.

(_Yep, we'll come back soon!_

_You promise?_

_Yeah! And you know that bear I gave you? Next time, I'll bring you an eagle!)_

And Matthew hugs Kumajirou tighter.

* * *

A/N: You know angst is my specialty 8DDD. Leave a review?


	2. Breaking Mirrors

**Characters: **South Korea, OC:North Korea

**Time Period: **Korean War, specifically 's invasion of

**Warnings:** Violence, prisoners of war, mild torture, the things you usually see in wars.

* * *

The door slams open, and from outside he can hear the wailing of his own people. She points the gun to the ceiling and pulls at the trigger, and as the sound echoes off the walls the voices silence themselves as well.

The door of his cell shuts loudly and the other soldiers lock his door down again. He can hear her boots clicking with each step she takes circling him.

A bottle is twirled around his face, tantalizing and tempting, and he doesn't take his eyes off his bent knees. She blasts the cap off with her gun threateningly, and soon after the water spills all over on the floor in front of him. He bends down obediently.

It's the first time he's seen himself, and his hair's musty, clothes bloody, and that pained expression on that face... it isn't him. The flag he had tied around his forehead as a bandanna is torn and dyed red.

From behind him he can see the brown jacket and the gold-painted buttons glinting. The red medals disappear in the rosy tint of the water, but the gun holster is oddly clear in the reflection.

"The autumn sky," he forces out, voice broken and strained. He takes a lick at the water. "...is void and vast." The tip of his nose is dipped into the puddle, and he watches as his reflection ripples. "...high and cloudless."

A foot digs into the back of his neck, forcing him down onto the water. The red on his hanbok washes away into pink, and he doesn't flinch when he sees her cock her gun at his head. It's not the first.

"Let us devote our bodies and minds to supporting _this_ Korea forever," she growls out, and when she makes a threatening click with her gun he assumes it's a signal to repeat. Not that he'd follow.

He sips at the water in front of him, and it tastes slightly salty. "The bright moon is our heart, undivided and true."

A bullet grazes Yong Soo's temple and shoots his reflection on the water. The liquid splatters everywhere; on his hair, on the gun barrel, on her shoes. Yong Soo smiles crookedly when the bullet lands on where his sister's reflection was.

He doesn't want to see how much they both look alike.

* * *

The only dialogue in this is composed of the two Koreas' anthems. 's is Aegukga, and 's is Aegukka


	3. Victorian Vanities

**Characters: **America, England

**Time Period: **WW2, _italics _from Colonial

**Warnings: **Un-beta-d. Actually, all my works un-beta-d.

* * *

It's a beautiful, dusty vanity from his adolescent years. Arthur lightly prods the tip of the mirror's frame, and with a loud squeak from the bolts the mirror tilts back.

_"Hey, what's this?" Alfred says in awe, running towards the wooden vanity and dragging Arthur along with him._

"Oh, that's a vanity. From Bath."

"Va-na-tee," Alfred says experimentally, and he repeats the words a few more times.

"Va-ni-tee," Arthur whispers, and he bends down to Alfred's height to pet his head. "Say it, va-ni-ty."

Alfred puffs up a cheek. "I dun wanna, daddy."

"Arthur?"

Arthur looks at the doorway's reflection on the mirror, and he finds a mop of blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a pair of rounded glasses.

_"Daddy!"_

Arthur flips the mirror around and stares hard at the wooden back before turning around. He refuses to meet Alfred's eyes. "Let's go."

_"Okay!"_

Alfred nods solemnly before unfolding a map of Germany.

* * *

**Words: **154

**A/N:** In case you didn't get the last line, it's the reason why this is set in WW2. America is unfolding a map of Germany, focusing in Berlin I suppose, to make up strategic plans, etc.


	4. Countdown

**Characters: **Ukraine, Belarus

**Time Period: **Eh, around the implementation of the Sovietization

**Warnings: **Implied physical abuse,

* * *

The tiles are cold beneath Ukraine's bare feet, and when she sniffs at the air there's only the thick scent of sprayed lavender and dying flesh.

Her sister's arms snake around her waist, keeping her down on her bed. "No."

Ukraine turns to look above her left shoulder, and her eyes wander around for her sister. "I have two arms. Two legs. Two plus two equals four. Four limbs."

"But brother—"

Ukraine has her hand on her sister's thin wrists, and when she brushes her fingers over her sister's skin there's a slight bump or two on the back of her hand. "It's always brother, brother, brother! I can't live with him anymore! You can remember these bruises and wounds..."

The arms around her waist pull to her right, and Ukraine can feel her sister's thick dress brushing against her through her own hospital garb. "Please, please stay, sister dear, please..."

(It's warm.)

Ukraine wrenches herself away from her sister's frail hands, and she knows that Belarus is now standing with the way the visitor's chair clatters noisily to the floor. "I can stand! I can stand!" Ukraine balls her hands into her gown, and she turns to her left, refusing to meet her sister's gaze. "I have my hands to care for my people, my eyes to see the whole picture, and my arms to wrap around my loved ones! I am my own!"

(Are we no longer your loved ones, then?)

"You have two legs. Two arms." Belarus breathes in sharply, and tries to look at her sister. Ukraine's musty auburn locks cover her from view. "Please, look at me."

Ukraine looks up, and Belarus can see her sister's eyes widen when her hair shifts back behind her ear. "Then where...?" She raises her right hand, and her sleeves fall to her elbow. "Where are you? Hold my hand..."

And when Belarus reaches for her sister's hand, avoiding the bandages climbing up from her elbow to her palm, Ukraine turns around and puts on a disconcerting smile. Belarus' eyes fill, and her hands start to shake.

"Oh, I thought you were there..."

Her sister's eyes are a milky white, and her left shoulder is bleeding with ulcers from what was torn away. Belarus' words die in her throat, and when she wraps her arms around her sister one more time, Ukraine struggles to cling to her with her one arm.

(Two legs. One arm. No eyes.)

(I can't live with him anymore.)

* * *

**Words: **414

**A/N: **Ack, I feel bad for messing Ukraine up D:. Leave a review and make her happy? 8DD


	5. After All

**Characters: **America, England

**Time Period: **WW2, _italics _in pre-colonial to War of Independence

**Warnings: **References of War of Independence (in italics), and of WW2 near the end.

* * *

(I ate my words again, daddy... How do you say it right?)

_"Mastecate? What a funny word, maas-te-cait. Mastecate."_

Arthur half-heartedly chuckles, and the door opens from behind him. Light glistens on the glass in the frame, and it shines on Arthur's face; pale, tired, and wrinkled. "Mas-**ti**-cate. It means 'to chew'," he whispers, more to himself than anyone else, but the man in the doorway can hear.

_"Whoa, daddy knows big words! Teach me more! Like, what was that again? That word you used with France--conkest? Invashin?"_

"Arthur, I know you might be angry, but that's a long time ago, we have to--"

Arthur rests a fingertip on Alfred's face in the photo; childish, bright, and there's a smile on his face stretching from ear to ear. Arthur can't help but wonder if he'll still be seeing that smile. Alfred, himself, they've all gone through their share of events, and Arthur doesn't want anymore. Not to break their already fragile familial relationship.

(If you can even call that a relationship.)

"One day, you'll grow up, get older, and be a prosperous country, just like me. Your own culture, language..."

_"Being a country... I'm tired, dad."_

Wrinkles mar Arthur's face, between his eyebrows, and he flicks the photo down flat on the surface. "I know."

The photo falls behind the dresser with a loud crack, and before Alfred can say anything, Arthur is already walking past him. "Masticate. Conquer. Japan. I'll deal with the others, now go."

Alfred bites his lip, and gives the older a tense nod before leaving.

_"Can I... call you Arthur now? I've conquered you now, anyway..."_

(You still can't pronounce conquer right after all.)

* * *

**Words: **281

**A/N: **My fail attempt at humor. D:


	6. You're Never Sure

**Characters: **China, Russia, a little Japan

**Time Period:** WW2

**Warnings: **Implications of rape, WW2 references

* * *

Being a country's humanized manifestation entails two things: one, you are your people. Two, you are not your own. That's the thought China's had for years, and today is no different.

This morning he finds himself waking up in sweat-drenched sheets, and Yao knows that his people are anxious of their neighbors. After several agonizing (fruitless) minutes of persuading himself (or China, or Yao) to calm down, he realizes he is not lying beneath his comfortable silken sheets after all.

"You," his voice is an octave higher than China wants it to be, and the man on the opposite side of the vehicle snaps into a salute. China coughs and mutters an apology. "Where are we headed?"

"President Chiang Kai-shek wishes to see you immediately," the man says, and China finds that he can't find this man's name in a sea of four hundred twenty million others, the names of his own people. "Japan has--"

"No, no!" China whispers, and he quickly manages a crooked smile. "Oh, there is no need for you to continue," China says, and Yao's voice is shaking. "I--I know the situation of my own country far enough. Where does bos--the president want to meet?"

The man looks to him with an apologetic smile. "We are headed to the capital, Nanking."

And when the driver looks to the back with a gun in his hand does China realize that these people are not of his country at all, and that they're Japan's people, and then Yao finally realizes that sympathy can't be given to Japan anymore when all of China's people disappear on him.

What happens after, Yao does not remember (and he's not trying to), but his people know, _China_ knows, and Yao can remember the sting searing through his shoulder, the steely glare of a blade, and its holder's eyes burning fresh in his memory.

(He's not sure if those eyes were Japan's or Kiku's. They was probably Japan's. Kiku wouldn't do that.)

China's clothes aren't their usual red. (They've gone a few feet to his side, ripped to shreds, and) China can't bring himself to curl up to cover the blood flowing down his thigh.

Russia sits down a few inches from the Chinese man's feet and prods him with a gloved finger. "Why are you dead?"

China makes a sound from his throat. "I'm not dead," he croaks out, and a deep red trails from the corners of his mouth. Russia nods.

"So you're dying, then."

China bites his lip and locks his eyes to the ground beside his head. (The red is flowering slowly around him, the screams are ringing in his ears, and these are the times when he's left wishing that he's _Wang Yao_, not China.)

"You look like a plate. The porcelain kind," Russia says, and the corners of his mouth twitch downward when he prods a bluish-brown circle on China's bare legs and China squawks in response. "The ones with blue, flowery designs on them."

It's when Russia stands up and pulls China up with a smile that Yao's grateful that he's China, not just some person in that sea of four hundred million others. He's a country, and Russia's a country, and there are relations bound to spring from that. Or maybe they're fake relationships brought about by these entirely diplomatic relations, and suddenly China's not sure.

"Japan's mean, giving you bruises like that. I'll help you, China!" (Yao, please. My name is Wang Yao.)

China lets out a hum and buries his face in golden locks. "Thank you, Russia."

(Would you like to be called Ivan instead?)

* * *

Words: 605

**A/N: **I feel sick just looking at this. Ack.


End file.
